Back at college, when I'd first started smoking dope, I was a constant source of amusement for the kindly people that got me into it - they gave me dope, I'd sit there and burble out bizarre statements for their entertainment.

There was no malice in this, fun time had by all and all that, I'm just setting the scene. I was a bit new to it all, and had been told to keep the smoke in as long as possible. So of course I had to hold it in longer than anyone else, so I'd look cool, and see how long I could keep it without my chest exploding, while maintaining an exterior appearance of "Dope? Smoking? Not *me*, old chap! I'm well hard, d'you see?" So sometimes, I'd be just about to die, and would wheeze the breath out. But no smoke would come out. I'd breathe out as far and as hard as I could, but still no smoke. Shit, I'd think, the smoke's not coming out.

"Where has the smoke gone?" I'd call out to my mates. They'd look at me blankly, as I pointed at my chest. "Smoke's not coming out," I'd explain.

They'd laugh understandingly, and give me more dope.

This happened lots of times, and it kept getting funnier every time. Their explanation was, I'd done too much, and was babbling, like normal. And I'd laugh, and say yeah, what a crazy rock and roll guy I am.

But you know what? I *still* say the smoke never came out. It must have been absorbed into my internal organs, and gone off into corners and committed terrible atrocities. Or just had a laugh. Maybe it's still in there.


Waiting for it's chance.

And one day I'll be at a job interview or meeting the Pope or bridging an important peace agreement between two warring countries, and just as world peace or my sainthood or my commission as CEO of ICI is about to be made public, I'd scream: "Fuck! Fucking smoke's coming out! I fucking *told* you!"